Proudest Possession
by Fanless
Summary: A boy and his marble — and the spell it cast. By no means does Gawain come away unscathed from playing with Teatime's eye for years...
1. Out With The Old, In With The New

_This was originally intended to be a part of Those Violent Boys, but it had too much potential to squish into (roughly) 100 words. Besides, it isn't really about _Teatime_, per se. I'm sure it could be stronger, but as is it's nicely dark, I think.  
_

* * *

**.**

**. : Proudest Possession : .**

**.  
**

**

* * *

**

_This is how it started...

* * *

_

Gawain loved his Hogswatch marble-- how it whirled and zigzagged and evaded. It glinted mesmerizingly in the sun, despite the crack through the middle which made him love it even more. None of the boys at the park had a marble with a line through it, not even Peter, and Peter had just about every kind of marble there was.

Susan didn't like it. She got a funny look whenever she saw him playing with it.

He didn't care. Huh, who cared what old Susan thought (_he thought, with a shiver of delicious rebellion_)? He was too old for a governess anyway. He was a teenager already.

And he wouldn't give up his marble for anything, or any_one_. It was _magic_, he was sure of it. Its clinking when it hit the other marbles sounded beautiful, like high-pitched laughter. It made a whispering noise when he rolled it in his palms. And if he put it under his pillow at night, he had the most wonderful dreams: strange, hallucinogenic things that were as disturbing as they were breathtaking (although at thirteen he probably wouldn't have put it in those exact terms in speech, because nobody his age talked like that).

Gawain had the dreams almost every night now.

But the most special thing, the thing that fascinated him the most, was how he could _see _things in it. When he held the marble up to his eye, the world was a new place. Sparks of light sprayed off windows, books, people; different colors, different shapes, different _feels_. The closer he held the marble, the more amazing and otherworldly his vision became. Objects warped, stretched or shrunk, made monstrous or ridiculous or paralyzingly beautiful. He felt he could see the bones of anything's soul through that marble-- if such a thing existed.

He could think better with the marble, too. Sharper. Faster. Clearer. It was as if it was a part of him, a part of him that somehow existed apart from him but that he wasn't complete without. The world was a hard, dull place without the view through the marble.

Gawain wished he could see through it always.

* * *

Susan caught him one day looking through the marble.

She went very pale, and very quiet. Gawain had learned to beware when she went like this, but these days it didn't scare him much. Nothing scared him much these days. He'd realized that it was silly to let yourself be scared when you didn't have to; the sights in the marble showed him how to look at things. It all depended on your perspective.

It was only Susan, anyway. She'd never hurt him.

Even if she did, it wouldn't stop him. Gawain knew that he was special now. He knew things that other people didn't.

He didn't go out to the park with Peter and the others much anymore, or Twyla; he liked to be by himself and think about things, now that he really _could _think. Sometimes he held little conversations with the marble-- himself, really. He liked to look at his reflection in its curves and marvel at how different he looked: his hair yellower and curlier, his body lither and taller. One eye was always in shadow; he supposed because that was the eye he used for the marble, and it could hardly be expected to reflect itself, could it?

* * *

Little by little, an idea formed.

It had to be planned very carefully. Gawain did his research thoroughly and made the preparations, though it wasn't easy under Susan's watchful eye. Timing was essential. Everyone absolutely had to be out of the house.

It took a while. But one day, everyone _was. _Even Susan.

Gawain waved them goodbye. Then he stopped and looked out the window for quite a while.

He wouldn't be seeing it again, after all. Not this way.

* * *

It seemed fitting that the weather should be gray, somehow. Gawain placed the cleaning equipment and himself before the fireplace, because that seemed right, too.

Then he took the poker into his hands and began patiently sterilizing the tip. In some strange, unnamable way, that seemed right, too.

* * *

It hurt. It hurt worse than anything had ever hurt him before. It hurt like a _bitch_, and it was a long time before he could do anything but try to control his breath and will movement back into his muscles, but at the end of what seemed like an eternity he managed to pull himself up and look in the mirror.

It wasn't pretty.

Gawain slipped in the marble, blinking away tears and blood and other things that, thanks to Tacticus, he could name and describe in clinical detail.

But now it was.

The beauty hit him like a fist below the jaw. Gawain didn't realize he was on his knees again for long, long moments.

What he saw: it was everything he thought he'd see and more, oh, so much more. Thoughts flowed unbidden through his head; memories that didn't belong to him, revelations. And around him the sitting room caught on glorious, godlike, crystal-clear fire.

He understood now. He remembered. And he understood _everything_.

The door creaked open.

The women had no time to take in the gory carpet, the handprints on the walls, the medicine chest scattered across the hearth. Gawain was _there_, quite suddenly in front of their noses. It would've been more dramatic to remain kneeling and slowly turn around, of course, but a gentleman always stood when a lady entered the room.

"Hi!" he said, suddenly feeling light as a feather. "Mother, Twyla. _Susan_. You all look so... _different_."

* * *

_...and that is how it started again._


	2. Susan Storm

_Lucky me! Not only do people want me to continue this story, I really want to myself. Can you feel the potential bubbling?_

_Please let me know how well Susan came out in your review. I've never written her before, and am a little doubtful.  
_

* * *

**.**

**. : Ch. II : .**

**.  
**

**  
**_

* * *

_

Mrs. Gaiter swooned.

Susan caught her, but only because she happened to be standing directly behind the woman. Her attention was entirely focused on the bloodstreaked figure smiling remotely at the wall beyond their heads.

Damn. Damn. _Damn_.

She could have seen this! She _had _seen it! Hadn't he been carrying that marble around like a security blanket? Hadn't he been moping in corners talking to himself? Hadn't he been enthusiastic to the snapping point about them going out without him? He'd even _suggested _it. She could see through walls, she could remember the future (sometimes), but she hadn't put two and two together!

And now...

"G--Gawain?" Twyla stammered. She moved forward, then back, forward then back, as if afraid the floor might give way under her feet. "What-- what happened? Your eye..."

"Twyla," said Susan quietly. "Take your mother to her room. I'll see to Gawain."

"What--"

"NOW, TWYLA."

Twyla left, Mrs. Gaiter in tow. Susan sighed. She hadn't wanted to do that, but Twyla was altogether too determined for most people's own good. Doggedness and a determination to put her hands into everything had served the girl well in mud-pie days, but they were not what Susan wanted her displaying at this time. Not in front of _this_.

"All right," she said as the door clicked shut. "Get out."

Gawain blinked. "What?"

"Not 'what?", 'pardon me?'," the tutor in Susan retorted automatically. "If you're who I think you are, you can make yourself scarce, Mr. _Tea_time."

"But I'm not," said the bloody figure, stepping toward her. Susan raised her poker arm automatically before remembering it was still in _his _hand. "I'm Gawain. I know all about Mr. Teatime now. I know quite a lot now." He smiled. The effect-- white teeth against crimson blood, as the eye glinted grayly-- was ghastly. "He was that man with the sword that Hogswatch. The creepy one. And this--" gesturing-- "was his eye. I remember, because the marble told me."

"Really."

"Yes, it told me all kinds of things. And now I can see them myself. Oh, Susan, I wish you could see too; Susan, it's _lovely_..."

* * *

The room was even more beautiful now that Susan was in it.

He hadn't known before. People had _colors_. Mother was a soft beigey; it surrounded her like a low cloud of dust and faded when she fell into a dully buzzing outline. Twyla had orange and yellow and pink, with candy-apple red here and there, like little chrysanthemums and stars.

But Susan...

He'd always known she was _more _than other people, even when he was much littler and didn't realize that he knew. But now he saw the light around her, that majestic purple-blue-black crackling and leaping off her to burst against the ceiling, filling the air around her farther than her arms' span. Susan had power, so much that he almost wanted to lean into that furious bright and drink it in like spring water. Susan was a storm.

"Mr. Teatime thought you were the granddaughter of Death," Gawain said, mulling another man's memory over. "I suppose it must be true. You seem to be awfully strong."

"Gawain, take the eye out." Susan stepped toward him. The lightning snapped. "Listen to me! It could mean your life. If it tries to... to _tell _you anything, don't listen. Just take it out before it has a worse effect on you. I'll help you."

Gawain laughed. _Worse_? Of course! She didn't know! How could she, when she'd never touched it, never heard, never felt the magic in the glass? "But Susan, it's not a bad thing. It's wonderful. I can see the beauty in everything, the-- the _energy_." He waved his hands vaguely, grasping for words. "I know where things are without having to see them-- I can feel that Mother's waking up and Twyla's standing next to her. I can hear them, a little. I can see your-- maybe it's your soul. I'm not sure." He hesitated. "But I know I'll learn soon, and more, lots more." And smiled. The arm holding the poker dropped, and he _stepped_.

It was easy. He was amazed that other people couldn't do it. All he did was think _in front of Susan_, and he was across the room.

Her electricity spat around him. He shivered, but held his ground.

"GAWAIN, TAKE THE EYE OUT. TEATIME, LET HIM GO."

It filled the earth, grasped and shook him by his soul, and he felt his free hand rise to his face. And wrenched it down; the mind-quake passed. The eye had protected him.

"Susan, I _told _you," he said, slightly annoyed. "I'm just _me_. Don't you believe me?"

"Quite frankly, no. I don't want to repeat myself, either. Gawain: GIVE ME THAT MARBLE. NOW."

She reached out.

She shouldn't have done that.

* * *

Mr. Gaiter never considered anything more unlikely than whether it was going to rain. If someone had asked him whether he would ever have expected to come home to see his son and his son's lady tutor dueling for their lives with a poker and coal tongs respectively, he would have blinked at them.

So when he found himself in the way of a poker thrust, the considering part of him shut down and a dustier part of him, one that hadn't been called upon since he was not much older than Gawain, took its place.

He dropped, tumbled out of the way of Susan's stride and scrambled to his feet, already panting. "Susan? I say, Susan, what's--"

Gawain turned to him.

Mr. Gaiter saw the blood over the waistcoat and white shirt, ironically matching the red ribbon tie. He saw the vacant open-mouthed grin and, most of all, the stare fifty percent blanker.

"Hello, Father," Gawain said, and stared over his head. "Did you know you're a nice mossy color?"

Mr. Gaiter blinked. Susan made a grab for Gawain-- and the boy _vanished_. One minute he was there, the next he was on the other side of the room, scowling. "Why won't you _listen _to me?"

"Mr. Gaiter," said Susan, quietly. "Please listen closely. Gawain probably won't fight you. When he comes near, I want you to grab him and take that eye away from him."

"That eye--"

"It doesn't belong to him," said Susan. "In fact, it's very dangerous, believe me."

"But what--"

And Gawain was there, lunging at Susan to strike the tongs from her hand. Nimbly she dodged. It was Mr. Gaiter's cue, and he clutched the boy's upper arms.

"Now, Gawain, listen here--"

"Take the crystal!" Susan shouted, advancing. Mr. Gaiter was shocked. He'd always seen Susan as a lady of few words: polite, capable, and overall, intelligent. The warrior hurricane closing in on him with dancing, writhing hair just didn't fit his preconceptions.

_Take the crystal._ She must mean that... what had taken the place of his boy's clear green eye. But how? Mr. Gaiter hung on to the scrabbling Gawain, frantic. Surely she didn't mean him to just reach in and--

Gawain bit him.

It wasn't the sort of thing Mr. Gaiter admitted to. He felt it made him look a bit daft. But ever since childhood, after hearing a campfire story about Überwald, he'd always had an aversion to being bitten. A silly one, really, seeing as how nothing had ever bitten him except the wind sometimes in the winter if he'd ventured out sans scarf, but now the horror was close to home.

The dusty part thought for him, and his hand shot out and knocked the boy across the back of the head. A small pinging noise was heard, Gawain went limp, and Susan stooped and picked up a little gray ball from the floorboards.

"I suppose I ought to explain," she said with a sigh.


	3. This Can't Be Happening

_Does anyone know for certain how old Gawain and Twyla are in canon? Because here-- I'm changing it-- Gawain is 15, Twyla 14._

_Also, sorry this is so short-- I'm really pressed for time and am trying to cut back on my internet time, plus I lost my outline. But I'll see you soon!  
_

* * *

**.**

**. : Ch. III : .**

**.**

**

* * *

  
**

Susan explained. Mr. Gaiter tried to follow.

It wasn't that it was a poor explanation-- she spoke quite clearly, and it should have made sense, but it didn't. It didn't make sense because things like this simply did not _happen _to respectable upper-middle-class families. People like the Gaiters _did not _unknowingly (certainly not _knowingly_) harbor powerful magical talismans formerly belonging to maniacal killers in their children's nurseries. And properly brought-up young ones like his son did _not_ stab out their own... parts of... they didn't do what Gawain seemed regrettably to have done, they just _didn't_.

Of course, Gawain had always been a curious child.

"And he'll, er...?" Mr. Gaiter ventured.

"Recover? I hope so." Susan smoothed the sheets efficiently over the softly breathing mound that was Gawain. "I doubt we'll get the eye back, though, unless some god sees fit to intervene."

Mr. Gaiter looked down at the ribbon of black where Gawain's left eye should have been, a strip torn from Susan's sleeve. "There isn't anything you could, er..."

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Gaiter," Susan said gently, and sighed. "Power in my family runs to taking things away, not putting them back. I did tell you."

"Yes, well, er..." Mr. Gaiter felt quite helpless. His was a mind used to dealing with leather and laces-- the sort, that is, that shoes are made of-- not occultism, instability, and bodily mutilation. All at once. "I say, Susan," he said reproachfully, "you couldn't have, er..."

"Yes. I could have prevented it," said Susan, and the emptiness behind it gave him pause. "I could have. I'm still asking myself why I didn't."

He wasn't used to hearing Susan sound gloomy. It was as unsettling as everything else that had happened since coming home.

"Your wife didn't take it too well, I'm afraid," Susan continued, sounding more resigned than anything else. It was Mr. Gaiter's turn to sigh. Bettina rarely took _anything _well.


	4. Sister, Brother

_Did a little editing to keep the tone consistent._ _"A rapidly browning rose-stain shed its petals over his heart" may have worked for Edgar Allan Poe; not so much for Twyla Gaiter._

* * *

**.**

**. : Ch. IV : .**

**.**

**

* * *

**

Word spreads quickly through the well-to-do. Most of them have nothing _better_ to do. So when Bettina's usual dinner party was abruptly canceled, a doctor was seen entering the Gaiter home, and all of it was done in the most evasive manner imaginable, the gossip brigade polished its armor. It was obvious that they wanted _something_ to go unnoticed; therefore, it was fated to become the talk of the town.

Mrs. Ludd suggested that the whole family'd come down with the fever. No, insisted Mrs. Fanstanton, they'd had a death in the family—Bettina would never have canceled for anything less. Hardly, snorted Mrs. Mentolli: she was willing to bet those children of hers had got into some scrape—fallen down the stairs, most likely.

The rumors passed from ear to ear, picking up speed and ludicrous details as it flew. If any of the housewives who so cheerfully and morbidly speculated had known the _truth_, of course, they wouldn't have chattered so carelessly.

Or maybe they would have. It's hard to tell with some people.

* * *

Twyla was there when her brother woke up. She'd been asleep herself, but when Gawain said her name she jerked awake, spilling the glass of water on the nightstand over her arm.

He was sitting up. Susan had cleaned the worst of the blood from his face, but no one had changed his shirt, which was stiff with brown. The band of black around his head reminded her just as sickeningly as the shirt of what was no longer there.

"All right?" Gawain asked concernedly.

He was so pale the freckles on his cheeks looked like ink spatters, he'd been sleeping for three days— oh, yes, he'd _stabbed out his own eyeball_—

And _he _wanted to know if _she _was all right. Twyla choked.

"Wainey, you— what happened? We got home and there was— well. What the hells _happened_?" Anger always served her well when the alternative was more uncomfortable.

Gawain shrunk, reminding her of the time they'd gotten into the drinks cupboard last year. He'd gotten the same breakable look the morning after, and Susan had coolly dosed him with cod-liver oil. "I don't know how to explain it..."

"Try. And for gods' sake don't look so helpless. I'm here, all right?"

He grinned weakly, and not for the first time Twyla wondered why she always felt like the older sister even though there were almost three years between them. Gawain was so reckless. He always thought he knew everything, then got mad when he got contradicted. He always jumped into things before thinking of the consequences...

He was talking. "What?"

"The marble. You can see all these _things _through it. Like the world as it really is. You can see magic with it, and people's souls, and things like sounds have colors— it's _brilliant_. I could even hear better when I had it, I could hear the Balljars' dog barking."

"Wainey, the Balljars live two blocks away."

"I know!" The look on his face was painful: fervent adoration mixed with intense longing. "I wish you could see it, too—"

Something horrible occurred to Twyla. She pushed it down and concentrated on her brother. He was talking wildly, the pain beginning to overshadow the excitement.

"I've got to have it back," he concluded bitterly. "I can't go back to _this_—" indicating the bandage. "I won't. They can't make me. They won't _get _it, I know they won't, but the way it felt— Twyla, it was like being a god or something. I could've done anything with it, I'm sure. It was _magic_."

* * *

Gawain wouldn't take the rest of the water in the glass. He wouldn't eat or drink anything, not then or the day after. At the end of the week Dr. Lawn came back, and was seen to shake his head.

Twyla decided it was time to do something rash.

"You want that eye back, don't you?" she demanded, barging in.

Gawain looked up. It shouldn't be possible for a person to look so _starved _after only four days without sustenance, she thought, and knew he was dying from more than literal malnutrition. "More than life," he said.

Twyla knew he wasn't exaggerating. Not this time.

"Then get out of bed," she said, holding out her hand. Susan really should have hidden it better. "We'll get something to eat in Sator Square."


	5. Acrobatics in Sator Square

**.**

**. : Ch. V : .**

**.

* * *

**

Gawain was feeling fine. The sun was shining, the Ankh was quivering gently, the unidentifiable puddles were glistening. And it all looked so lovely and sharp and bright. In one eye, at least. The other one—the old one—wasn't quite as good, so there was a slight discrepancy between the two—

Discrepancy? What did that mean? He'd never said that before. Gawain shook his head. He must've picked it up from one of the books Susan gave him. It sounded like a useful word, anyway.

Twyla wasn't saying much. She hadn't since they'd climbed through his bedroom window an hour before, making their way in the noontide scrum of foot traffic to Sator Square. He'd been so weak he'd crumbled twice—or was it thrice?—and each time she'd caught him. But never with more than a muttered "whoops" or "careful". It wasn't like her: usually Twyla held forth on anything that had crossed her mind for the past three days. Gawain was worried.

But not that much. Who could worry on a day like today? Especially with a sausage in your hand, the city stretching out under your feet—Gawain was proud of that phrase; he was feeling unusually erudite today—

_Erudite_?

"Careful," said Twyla as he narrowly avoided a cart (not because he hadn't seen it, but because he wanted to see how close he could get). The lack of what seemed to him to be a necessary exclamation point piqued his interest.

"What's wrong, Twee?" Gawain crunched the last of his sausage down. "Cart got your tongue?"

"What?"

"You're not talking. It's weird."

"I'm just thinking."

"That's weirder."

Grinning, he skipped away, preemptively dodging the lash. None came. "Seriously, are you feeling all right? You just seem a bit down."

Twyla shrugged.

This called for serious cheering maneuvers. Gawain racked his brain, which wasn't easy; it kept wanting to wander away, follow the newest aura or the prettiest sound. Aha! He'd show her something impressive, something he wouldn't have been able to do if she hadn't got the eye back for him. Scanning the area for a tree, he found a signpost protruding from a brick wall instead. It'd do.

"Twyla, watch this!"

Knees bent. Hands reached. He didn't even try to calculate distances or angles; didn't need to— the world went rubber around him, and the next moment he was swinging from the sign's post by one hand, ten or eleven feet up. Twyla gaped.

"Not bad, eh?" Gawain was enjoying this. Others were gathering, gasping, pointing. He liked their amazement; he liked being the center of attention. Being the older-but-not-by-much child of only two usually meant intricate waltzes of courtesy around you as parents tried their best to treat the children _equally_. Screw _equally_, Gawain thought with all the glee of a protected child being naughty: these people didn't know him. They didn't have any _opinions_ of him yet. He'd show them he really _was_ special, really _was_ better at something. He swung himself back and up, high. A few crowd members screamed as his fingers left the metal fleur-de-lis; he didn't see if Twyla was one of them.

He was falling—

—but he wasn't. His toes were neatly balanced on the tiny metal pole. People peeked through their fingers. Gawain laughed aloud and did what he fondly thought was a little soft-shoe. Laughter, squeaks and clapping. Twyla, for once speechless, had her hands to her mouth. He had them.

Time to ratchet it up again.

All eyes were on the slight redheaded figure as it burst into the sky again, pinwheeling up and across the roof of the dwarf boutique to land on its feet and spring the alleyway—almost nine feet without a run-up!—but only _one_ noticed the glint shining out of the pale freckled face.

A mossy green coat turned and slipped itself into the bustle of the rest of the road, the scarf above it fluttering jauntily in the sudden breeze.


	6. Nice To Meet You

**.**

**. : Ch. VI : .**

**.**

* * *

Susan paused in her idle rearranging of the old nursery's books and listened.

Something was not right. Something was quite wrong. Somewhere, briefly, the world had warped. A thing like that was hard to _not_ notice, even sometimes for normal people, and—as she never failed to be reminded—Susan was anything but normal people. She _listened_.

And somewhere not too far away, she heard something like music. Slow, carefree whistling to the tune of thumping boots; the rhythmic snap of a scarf in the breeze… and farther off, a giggle.

* * *

"They loved me!" Gawain bowed elegantly to a now-absent audience, beaming. "They really loved me!"

Twyla stared in shock at the pile of money in the hat. Where had the hat come from? Someone had tossed it, cheering, and then the rain of notes and coins had followed. "Wainey, there must be at least ten or fifteen pounds here—"

"Did you see their faces when I jumped that last time?" Gawain hardly heard his sister. He was soaring. Mr. Teatime would have been proud, he was sure of it. He could feel a sparking, tingling warmth running through his skull; the eye approved. The sensations it fed him, the feeling at times that it almost had a mind of its own, were becoming familiar. He liked the thought of Mr. Teatime's thoughts still swirling over its surface, liked the idea that it picked up a little something from previous wearers. Briefly he wondered what _he'd_ leave behind—then dismissed the idea. He'd never give up the eye. It was his now. His, forever.

Shaking her head, Twyla turned her back on her brother and gathered up the hat. How they'd explain all this to Susan and Mother, she had no idea. Unless—unless they managed to _spend_ it all first…

She tried not to smile, really she did. Some proper lunch first of all, because ten minutes after you ate a Dibbler sausage you were hungrier than you had been before the sausage—

And just like that, the cap was gone from her hands. Twyla had blinked. Whipping right, then left, she barely caught a glimpse of a green coat disappearing at speed before the crowd closed in around it again. _Damn!_ She didn't say it aloud. _Never create a scene when you don't have to_—

Gawain stopped capering. The air around Twyla had burst into violent red starbursts. He was beside her in an instant. "Twee, what's the matter?" He took in the red blotches across her cheeks, the empty hands. "Our money—"

"There was a man with a green coat! You stay here, I'm going after—"

"Alone? Mum'll kill me!" Gawain clutched his sister's arm, momentarily forgetting that his mother was hardly going to be pleased with either of them for anything they'd done that day. "Did you say green coat?"

"Grass green. And checked trousers. I didn't see his face or anything; he had a scarf—and he's slapped the hat on. A brown hat. Why?"

"Give me a boost." Twyla looked bemused, but crouched down so that he could clamber onto her shoulders the way they'd done as toddlers trying to reach the biscuit jar. "What now?"

Gawain glanced across the hustle and bustle. Auras rose and mingled above the heads of the passersby like colorful clouds of dust. Grass green was hardly a popular color for men's coats; that combined with the rest of the clothing shouldn't be too hard to spot. Good thing Twyla was so observant. Susan had taught her well, said his mind. A shudder from the eye. _Susan_.

He shook his head and blinked a few times, focusing back onto the people. Wrong kind of green, wrong pants, right hat with wrong everything else… there weren't a lot of scarves out on this hot day. "What color was the scarf?"

"Striped. Green and pink."

"That's Dimwell football colors." Gawain concentrated, covering his weak eye and letting the new one take over. _I want to see far_. The crystal responded, zooming out like a fancy iconography lens. He almost wobbled a little. Sator Square laid itself open before him as if he were standing on the Tower of Art rather than Twyla's thin shoulders.

"So our thief's a _real_ prat, then."

"What? Why?"

"He's a football fan, isn't he?"

"Just because _you_—" The eye sparked almost painfully. "I think I see him!" Blocks away, a green coat with a striped scarf over it was making its way toward Short Street. "Twee, I'm going to try something. Give us another boost, all right?"

Twyla groaned, but did her best. The smallest of propulsion would have done, really; Twyla was a strong girl, despite her fairly delicate frame—all wire and sinew, as schoolyard bullies tended to find out promptly—and Gawain felt he could have made it pretty far even _without_ the eye. As it was, he willed the world to bend around him again—easier every time—and bounded to the top of a dilapidated house. It protested as if ready to fall in. Gawain hurriedly concentrated again and sprang, this time to a sturdier tiled roof.

Five roofs later it occurred to him that he could have taken Twyla along with him. Guiltily he dismissed it, though he knew he'd catch it from her when he got back. The possibility of the situation being more of an "if" than a "when" didn't even cross his mind.

He reached the end of the block and paused to look again. No green and pink to be seen on Short Street. But down an alley, a flicker of color, bright in the gloom. Heading toward Dimwell side of town. Gawain had never been there; Mother didn't think it a genteel place for young people, despite the fact that a great deal of the young people in Ankh-Morpork seemed to come from it and its surrounding neighborhoods. It was where the families with the most mouths and the least means to feed them often ended up. Maybe their certainly-unlicensed thief was a young pickpocket scrounging to pay the bills. The thought depressed Gawain. Ankh-Morpork was such a lovely city; no one who lived in it should have to go through such hardship. It was pathetic, it really was.

It was times like these that he really wished he could just snap his fingers and change the world.

The crystal whispered, beguiling.

But Gawain wasn't hearing it this time. He had to concentrate on dodging chimney pots. He was almost level with the thief now. Just one more rooftop, and—

The would-be thief skidded to a halt. His getaway was quite abruptly impeded by a freckly kid with fluffy ginger hair flicking out at all ends who sure as hell hadn't been there two seconds ago. Normally this wouldn't prove a problem; he'd shove past just like you did in, hah, the Shove—gods knew he'd had enough practice in that—but when he tried bulling forward, he found his feet wouldn't pick up. It were as if he were at the end of an unstretchy leash.

"Whatya want?" he growled, looking the kid over. Didn't look like any threat. Only about fourteen, years younger than him. Posh clothes, shiny boots, clean face—

Hold on! What was _wrong_ with that face? Most of it looked all right if somewhat pale, disgustingly fresh and innocently concerned, but there was a zombielike inflamed ring around one eye, bruised and crimson. And the eye itself—the bloody thing was sparkling blind, sending off _ping_s of light as the kid's head cocked slightly. No way that thing was real. Sitting there smugly in that sweet little socket, it looked almost… predatory.

He shook his head. Bollocks, all of it. He was just feeling the panics again, just like he did every time he went down an alley these days. The godsdamn anxiety attacks were getting worse then, hitting him like this in broad effing daylight. Maybe this little weirdo was some kinda hallucination—

"I'm sure you're poor, sir," said the hallucination with what appeared to be great concern, "but I have to bring that money back. Otherwise my sister'll have a fit. We could buy you lunch or something—"

"Blow this!" said the thief with passion. "You an illusion or what?"

Gawain blinked. Not what he'd expected in the way of antagonistic banter. "No, I'm—"

"Then how the hell'd you get there in fronta me like that?"

Gawain grinned. Another chance to show off. "Watch this." He grabbed the man's wrist and, before the other could fight, let the world turn around him.

They were on the roof of Mrs. Palm's. The thief gaped.

"Not bad?" Gawain suggested, flush with pride.

"I'm dreamin'."

"I'm afraid not." Gawain's smile grew. He _remembered_ this, a snippet from Mr. Teatime's mind: a rooftop, a terrified cutpurse. Mr. Teatime had been an Assassin, and Assassins had never liked thieves, had they? He'd given that poor man a real scare, no doubt about it.

"You some kind of wizard, then?"

Gawain considered this. "Not really. I don't think so. I just have this." He tapped the eye. It sparked slightly resentfully. The thief leaned in for a look, and Gawain studied him for the first time. Tallish, blond, would have been good-looking (he conceded) if not for the scars that his brown eyepatch only partly concealed. Except for the stolen hat his clothes were in surprisingly good condition. _Comparatively well-to-do,_ whispered the knowledge in his ear, _for this part of town_. The thief leaned back…

…and found his hat missing. Gawain balled up the cap and stuffed it into his waistband. "Thanks! Need a lift down?"

Growling only slightly, the thief considered his options. It didn't take long. "Yeah, right. Oy—"

A rush of air, a brief impression of the ground rushing to meet them with open arms—

—then they were back in the alley. The man staggered, righting himself. "Who _are_ you, anyway?" he managed, finishing his sentence. Gawain hesitated. He knew about telling strangers names. But what harm could it do? He had the eye, after all…

"Gawain," he said, daring the older man to laugh. "Gawain Gaiter."

"Oh, the leather man's kid, huh? I buy shoes at your dad's place every now n' then. Well, Wains, you seem like an important guy to know. No hard feelings, eh? Tell you what—you ever run into trouble down Dimwell end, you knock me up. The name's Shank." A chipped-toothed grin: all sharp edges. "But you can call me Andy."


	7. Over Luncheon, The Future

_First off I'd like to apologize for leaving this for so long without updating; those of you familiar with a Discworld roleplay forum called "Orderly Chaos" will know that it's been devouring my creative processes like Rincewind on a potato _— _and now, I suppose, the rest of you will know that too._

_Second off (?), I know this is awfully short, but let me assure you that more will be coming. Soon. I hope. Because I'd almost given up on fanfic for a while, but this is one of my favorite stories, and I don't know about you, but I'm not ready for Gawain and Twyla's adventure to be over yet..._

**

* * *

.**  
**. : Ch. VII : .**  
**.**

* * *

Despite Twyla's dirty looks, Gawain had invited his new friend to their "proper lunch". He seemed to feel that despite all evidence to the contrary the young man must be wasting away from living in Dimwell and needed feeding up. Andy Shank hadn't complained. Neither had Twyla, because a lady never displays discomfort. She often felt guttersnipes were to be greatly envied.

But she wasn't a guttersnipe and couldn't afford to act like one, and truth be told didn't think she could bring herself to in any case. Too much damn self-respect. So Twyla sat primly carving up her beefsteak and watching their guest inhale his meal as if he wanted to get it all down before the coppers showed up.

"So you just — splurk?" Andy made a stabbing motion. "With a poker? A bloody _poker?_"

"It wasn't until I put the eye out with it!'' said Gawain, gleeful at his own wit. The two roared. Twyla took a bite so pointed she expected it to cut her tongue.

"You know what you got there, kid? You could do sod-near anything with that eye. You could put Unseen University outta business."

Gawain shrugged with genuine modesty. "I don't know about that. I don't even know how to use it, really. But I can... sense the marks the previous owner left on it, I s'pose, and it tells me what to do, sort of."

_You're telling him too much,_ Twyla growled mentally.

"No kidding." Andy downed a gulp of ginger beer (Gawain hadn't allowed him to buy the real stuff; he'd agreed as mild as a mouse, and Twyla's eyes had automatically narrowed). "So, like— it's got a built-in manual? Like one of them fancy magic planners?"

"A bit like that, yes."

Andy whistled. "Where'd you get the little bugger, anyway?"

Gawain hesitated. It wasn't that he didn't trust the man, but—well, he _didn't_ entirely. He would have _liked _to. His mother had raised him— no, that wasn't right, was it? His mother had told him that trust was a wonderful and precious thing, but _Susan _had _raised _him, and Susan raised smart people. Not necessarily trusting people. "I found it," he said airily. "In a grate." Partly true.

"Damn lucky find." Andy toasted him. "Wish I could get my hands on somethin' like that. What you done with it so far?"

"Oh, not much," said Gawain airily. "A few tricks like what I showed you earlier. I can see quite far with it, too."

"Yeah? Can I have a look?"

The eye crackled in consternation, attempting to skitter further back into its socket, and Andy actually jumped as Gawain bit his lip. "I don't think that's a very good idea, Andy. It might not work the same for you as it does for me." _And I don't want to lose it. Ever. Ever._ "Besides, I'm not sure I could get it out."

"I could try," Andy offered a little too quickly. Gawain shook his head. "Maybe... maybe later. Anyway," he added, "you haven't told me anything about yourself yet. D'you live in Dimwell, then?"

Andy seemed willing enough to brag about himself. The conversation quickly turned uninteresting to Twyla, and she leaned back, absently chewing on her fork and staring at rather than through the windowpane.

There they were, reflected. Herself with her sharp face and wavy dark hair just like Father's— not pretty, but not exactly unattractive either—; Andy Shank, big and bold and a bit brutish with his scars and his jagged flashing grin; and—

The strangest thing. Gawain was there in the reflection all right, next to her and across from Shank, but someone else seemed to be in his place as well. Slightly taller, paler-haired, all in black and weirdly incorporeal— as she stared bits and pieces of the figure who wasn't there seemed to flicker out of sight, decaying in warped patches that melted and reappeared. Like a shadow-puppet in front of a moving lantern, or a reflection in disturbed water.

As she squinted, frowning, the figure rippled and turned. To her. A flash of white teeth, and a flicker of gold as one eye winked—

She jerked back, gasping. The fork fell from her mouth with a clatter.

"Twee?"

The reflection was gone. So was Shank. Gawain had his hand on her shoulder. "I've paid. Let's go."

"What? Oh..." Past the glass, a green coat disappeared round the corner. "Yes, all right. We had better get back before Mother notices we've gone. If she hasn't already."

Gawain's face fell at this. He struggled into his coat and began hunting for the hat. Twyla watched him, unmoving.

"Wainey?"

He looked up, nearly thumping his head on the table. "Whoops! I think Andy's still got the hat. He must have put it on again when he left by mistake. I'll ask next time I see— what's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"Only you're looking at me a bit funny—"

"It's nothing," she lied. "I just... it's nothing."

Gawain chattered all the way home about the things he was going to do and the plans he and Andy had been dreaming up. Twyla tried to listen. She didn't do very well. Her mind was filled with transparent smiles and ghostly eyes: one glittery, one gold.


End file.
